


Snake in the grass

by JaqofSpades



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex lies coiled between them like a serpent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snake in the grass

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XV, to the prompts: “Veronica Mars/Eli “Weevil” Navarro, tension, unspoken, respect, trust, teeth, motorcycle, beach, tattoo, language, favors, ink, truth, demand.”

Sex lies coiled between them like a serpent. 

Most times, it slithers off into some dark, safe place, leaving the way clear for less dangerous things. Friendship. Respect. Their mutual need to scratch some sort of living out of the hell that is Neptune, California.

They work together. Sometimes they flop on his couch together at night, too tired to make the effort to call up their significant others. Other nights, they play nice, and remember to check their phones in secret.

And then there's tonight.

He's getting a new tattoo, he'd said idly. She could come along and watch if she wanted – she'd been trying to make up her mind about getting ink for years now.

“Sure,” she'd agreed, barely taking the time to look away from the TV screen. “Sounds good.”

They'd both forgotten about the serpent.

*

The needle bites, and she flinches so hard that he reaches for her thigh in comfort. It's all he can manage, face down on the bench, and he doesn't expect her to clamp her hand over his and refuse to let him go. 

She sits close, so close that she catches every pained grunt or intake of breath, and each time her entire body tenses in sympathy. Her hand clutches his so hard that he wonders what will go numb first. The tortured patch on his lower back, his poor hand, or his cock. Because his head is almost in her lap, and her warm breath is spilling over his ridiculously sensitive scalp, and underneath the acrid burn of inks and sweat, he can smell her. 

That motherfucking snake is laughing at him.

He orders himself to stop touching her, to call a halt to the tattoo, to send her away. Whatever it takes to slither back into the grass. It's possible he hasn't eaten enough, he considers, and this is delirium. Maybe she doesn't know how the little stabs of pain fire every nerve ending, and flood the body with adrenaline. Perhaps she just doesn't realise what she does to him.

Doesn't really matter, because he's not going to do any of those things. He's been bit, and bad. His his hand is moving in circles on her thigh, massaging higher and higher, luxuriating in the feel of her skin even as he waits for her to clamp her legs together, or shift away. But she moves closer, instead, miniskirted thighs inching apart in an unconscious plea.

He's never been able to deny her anything.

A gasp catches in her throat when he brushes her mound through her panties, and her breath starts to stutter when he presses and strokes. The cotton is soaked, and he uses it to good effect, tugging and pulling at it to increase the friction, and dragging his fingernails over her the bump of her clit. A little moan escapes her lips, and he raises his eyebrows to tell her to be quiet, glancing back to see if the artist noticed. He's facing away from them, eyepiece close to Weevil's skin as he works on the details of the stylised motorcycle, and not even vaguely interested in what's going on at their end of the table. 

He lifts his head a little and holds her gaze as he sucks the taste of her from his fingers.

She blushes, but doesn't move away. Moves closer, in fact, and pulls his hand back between her own, kissing him on the knuckles reverently. Then sliding it back between her legs.

The plea just became a demand.

*

They stumble out of the studio two hours later, both of them swaying a little on unsteady legs.

“Glad you left the bike at home?” she asks, and maybe she's talking about the after-effects of the tattoo, rather than the fact that he can still taste her on his fingers.

“Not as glad as you're gonna be,” he says shortly, and pulls away from the curb with a squeal of tyres. The beach is two blocks away, and he parks in the darkest corner of the empty carpark.

Her brows shoot high in question when he stomps round to her door and opens it wide, pulling her up to stand.

“You gonna get in the back so I can get you naked, or do I have to pin you up against the door?”

“On this thing? Please. Toss me on the bonnet at least,” she quips, but she's already reaching for the door handle, and sliding across the wide bench seat. He virtually jumps her, hands tugging at her sodden underwear even before he's kissed her properly, but it's okay. She's got her hands on him, stroking on a condom, and if he doesn't -

“I need to be inside you. Now!” he orders, shaky hands arranging her longways on the seat and tugging her up onto all fours. Later, he'll take the time to look at her, to drink her in and love her properly, but now … she's bubbling in his veins like one of those crazy love drugs. He's addicted. He's been addicted for eight fucking years, and he's done playing snake in the grass.

“God yes,” she moans, and nearly loses her knees as he brushes his cock up and down her dripping slit. “Please, Eli. Please,” she begs, and he loves that, _loves_ it, but needs to be inside her more.

He buries himself deep with a single stroke, pulling almost clear of her to power right back in. He starts praying for her to come within seconds, because he's been right on the edge for years, and … one stroke more. And then surely he can manage another.

She's bucking back on him so hard that it completely robs him of any delusions of control, and her hand is working below, clumsily mashing at her clit in their haste. Frustrated little groans tell him she's sitting right on the edge, shuddering and rippling around him, but not quite able to surrender just yet. So he bites down, worrying the tender flesh of her neck with his teeth, until she hisses and spits, and finally, _finally_ , sheds her workaday skin.

So much for friends, he thinks dazedly as he comes back to himself. So much for favours, and speaking the same language, and the only person he could trust. The truth was so much bigger than that.

He'd been so busy fending off one serpent that he hadn't noticed the other lurking deeper in the shadows. And the serpent they call love? She'd sunk her fangs _deep_.


End file.
